Chapter 6: Kate

When I was thirteen, I accidentally made out with a sorcerer named Allan Redman. It happened on summer break, as these things usually do. Logan and I had spent a few weeks in Portland with Paige, and we’d hung out with some other supernatural kids. Long story short, I met this thirteen-year-old sorcerer and accidentally made out with him.

Okay, technically, the making out didn’t happen by accident. I knew what I was doing. A cute guy liked me and wanted to kiss me, and he was really sweet and nice, and I’d never kissed anyone, so he seemed like an excellent place to start. Get past the awkward first-kiss experience with a guy who lived clear across the country. But apparently, if you make out with a thirteen-year-old guy, he presumes it means something. Allan figured this was the start of a long-distance relationship, and while I didn’t exactly run away screaming, I handled it badly, and he really had been a nice guy, and I’ve felt guilty ever since.

So who did I just knock flying with the door? Allan Redman.

“Kate?” he says as I scramble to help him to his feet.

“Hey,” I answer with a too-bright smile. “Fancy meeting you here. And by ‘meeting you,’ I mean slamming a door into your face and knocking you flat on your ass. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Due to the bizarrely impractical lack of a door window?” he says with a slight smile.

“Exactly. No windows plus a distracted werewolf.” I stop. “Shit. I mean, damn. Er, uh . . .” I look around. and lower my voice “They don’t want anyone to know what Logan and I are.”

“Ah, so that explains why you don’t have a T-shirt. You lucked out.”

He makes a face as he waves at his bright yellow Team Sorcerer shirt. The color doesn’t do him any favors. He’s grown up cute. Well, he was always cute, but once you pass thirteen, the next few years put you at the mercy of puberty. He’s coming through it very nicely with an early summer tan, summer green eyes, a lean build and dark blond hair gathered in a ponytail. It’s the tan that really doesn’t go well with the yellow shirt.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’d hate to see what color they’d use for werewolves. Blood red, probably. Anyway, you already know what Logan and I are so. . .”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks.” I transfer my duffel to the other shoulder. “I should, uh, probably take this to my room. It was good seeing you. It’ll be cool having someone here. And I’m sorry . . .”

Sorry for being a total bitch three years ago. That’s what I almost say, but at the last second I manage to divert to, “Sorry for the door.”

“You don’t know your own strength,” he says with a smile and winks. “Exactly.”

I give a little wave that I hope doesn’t look completely pathetic, and then I jog along the side of the building. When I reach the back, I exhale.

Well, that was awkward.

I take a deep breath and continue on. There isn’t a door on this side, so I keep circling until I find a door exactly opposite the front one. So much for an exit closer to my room.

I slip through and ease the door shut behind me, taking the light with it.

My eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimness. There’s no hall to my left, which would have let me loop around and bypass the giggling girls. The hall in front of me returns to where I started. There’s also a corridor to my right, and when I look down it, I see twin rows of bedroom doors.

A giggle rings out near my bedroom hall, and the very pitch of it scrapes my spine. When one of the girls breaks into a nasally twang, I know she’s imitating another camper. The others all laugh. I cringe. At one time, I had no problem dealing with mean girls. After the past month, though, I just can’t face them.

Okay, let’s head down this other hall and see what Logan—

I turn just as a guy steps from a bedroom. He glances my way. I see only a swing of what look like short braids. Then he zooms back inside so fast I glance down to make sure I’m not wielding an AK-47. Nope, just a very bulky duffel bag.

Okay, that was weird. He must have mistaken me for a girl he’s avoiding, and I’ve had enough awkward today. I won’t go that way after all. I turn to face the exit I just came through.

Really, Kate? Are you really doing all this to avoid walking past a room of mean girls? You used to be able to handle those just fine.

Used to, yes. Back when handling the mean girls meant sticking up for their targets. Post-Brandon, though, I am their target. Yet the girls down that hall don’t know me. Time to channel the old Kate and handle this.

I turn and stride toward my bedroom hall. I make it two steps before running footfalls sound. It’s the guy who vanished into his bedroom five seconds ago.

“Well, hello there, hottie,” he says.

I blink, certain I’ve heard wrong. “Huh?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.” His gaze slithers over me. “However, I definitely haven’t seen you before, and I’m really hoping I’ll see a whole lot more.”

“What?” I can’t even manage a good comeback—my brain is too busy trying to process his words because he can’t be saying what he seems to be. Sure, I’ve been hit on before, but this is like watching the “Do Not” segment of a Flirting 101 video.

The guy has a southern accent with a faint cowboy twang. Texas, Arkansas, somewhere like that. He’s about my age, and as much as it pains me to say it, he is very fine. Gorgeous mahogany eyes, dark skin, short locs. Even the bile-green Team Half-Demon T-shirt looks good on him, snug over a nice set of biceps.

His smile sends convulsive shivers through me . . . but not the good kind. It’s the smarmiest hot-guy smile ever, the sort that says, “I know you’re checking me out,” when you just happen to glance his way. Also, he stinks. He’s wearing cheap cologne at gag-inducing levels.

When he steps closer, I back up. I hate retreating, but I have to for the sake of my gastrointestinal health.

He doesn’t seem to notice me withdraw. He’s too busy staring as if I’m a double-fudge banana split.

“You are something,” he says. “I know a lotta guys want a girl with more curvature.” He gestures to my chest. “But long and lean is my thing, and you are all that.”

“What? No. Just—”

“Have you ever thought of straightening your hair, though?” He eyes my curls with a nose-scrunch of distaste. “It’s the only thing keeping you from being a total babe.”

“Babe? Did you just call me a—” I clamp my mouth shut as I realize what this is. Negging. I’ve read about it in books; I’ve just never seen it in action, and I hoped that meant it didn’t really exist, because I cannot imagine any girl actually falling for a guy who insults her.

“My hair is fine,” I say. “My body is fine. Everything about me is fine . . . except for the fact that I’m currently standing downwind of an asshole.”

He blinks. Then amusement flashes through his eyes, and I think he’s going to laugh, as if this is all a joke, some kind of hazing ritual. But he erases the look with another blink and leans back, dark eyebrows rising almost to his hairline.

“You could just tell me you prefer girls,” he says.

“What? I don’t—” I stop myself. “Yes, yes, I do. If you are the alternative, then for the next week, I definitely prefer girls.”

I walk away. He calls after me, “You don’t need to be a . . . a . . .” He seems to stick on the next word. He actually gets as far as pronouncing “cu” before stopping himself, as if he can’t go through with it. Instead, he mutters a half-hearted, “You don’t need to be a bitch about it.”

His footsteps stomp off, extra hard, echoing down the hall.

I shake my head. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get weirder.

I want to write the guy off as a total douche, but between the over-the-top leering, the ridiculous negging and that flash of amusement, I can’t help but feel that I just witnessed a performance. One he’d managed right up until he tried to utter that particularly heinous word and couldn’t make himself finish the line.

A performance for what, though?

I back up to the guy’s hall and take a few steps down it. I look for hidden cameras, listen for snickering guys, search for any sign that I’ve just been played. Footsteps sound, but they’re on the other side of the building. I silently pad to the guy’s bedroom and listen, ear pressed to the door. Nothing.

Okay, I officially have no idea what all that was about.

As I turn the corner to my own bedroom hall, a girl shrieks. And there’s my brother lying flat out on the floor. Which wouldn’t be quite so alarming if he wasn’t also on fire.